by David Hair
The counsellors were staring at the ancient magus with unease, until Lucia asked, ‘So what exactly are you proposing, Magister Naxius?’ as if she didn’t already know.
Naxius showed some political instinct and handed the floor to his sponsor. ‘That is for Magister Vult to relate, for it is his idea. I merely supplied my expertise, my knowledge of the Bridge and the land beneath.’
Smart enough to share the glory, Gurvon noted. And, of course, the risk.
Vult resumed eagerly, ‘Those on the Tower thrones have the ability to rip the energy free of the Bridge and convert it to any form of the gnosis, though it can only be used within a narrow range. It could not, for example, be used to rain fire down on Hebusalim, three hundred miles away. But what we intend lies within its ambit: beneath Midpoint, wedged between the tectonic plates, is a rock the size of a hill: the heavenly body that destroyed the isthmus. If it were destroyed, the isthmus would rise again.’
Calan Dubrayle leaned forward. ‘Say that again, Magister?’
‘If the heavenly body were to be destroyed, the isthmus would rise again from the seas, permanently.’
‘A new, permanent link between Yuros and Antiopia? A road from Pontus to Dhassa, always above water?’
‘Allowing one empire to rule every known realm on Urte,’ Lucia added in a soft voice. ‘My son’s empire – our homeland.’
Gurvon raised a hand. ‘If we do this, there will be an earthquake like nothing ever seen before. It will destroy every building in Pontus and Dhassa, and likely cause damage all the way to the Brekaellen Vale in Yuros, and to the ranges dividing Dhassa and Kesh in the East. Tidal waves will swamp Dhassa and Pontus. It is unlikely that anyone in either place will survive. Millions will die, many of them people of Yuros.’
Even Kaltus Korion looked vaguely appalled at his words. Good, Gurvon thought. You need to know and understand the full extent of what you are considering. These are the decisions that Gods make.
And remember to pay my fee afterwards.
‘Let’s do it now,’ grunted Betillon, who had never been accused of having a conscience.
Naxius shook his head. ‘That is impossible: while the Bridge is beneath the waves, the solarus crystals are locked into sustaining it and are steadily drained of energy. They are virtually inert by the time the Moontide comes. Only when the Bridge is above water can the solarus energy reserves be rebuilt. We need that power to be at its zenith to be certain the meteor jammed into the tectonic fault-line is destroyed. That moment will come at the end of the next Moontide, Junesse 930, three years hence.’
Korion raised a hand. ‘What of my army? Where will my forces be when the hammer falls?’
‘My advice would be not return to Yuros at the end of the Moontide: if you remain east in Zhassi or Kesh, say – no further west than Ebensar Ridge – you will be on another tectonic plate and safe, barring some minor tremors. Provided your supply lines to Javon remain intact, you will be perfectly placed to weather the cataclysm and seize control of northern Antiopia afterwards.’
‘Fair enough.’ Korion frowned, then asked, ‘What of Echor’s army?’
‘They will have been mauled by the Keshi, thanks to the other arrangements we have in place,’ Gurvon answered. ‘He’ll probably be retreating across the bridge itself when we strike, or already in Pontus licking his wounds.’
‘Until the sea washes them away.’ Betillon guffawed.
‘Then afterwards,’ Vult added, ‘there would be nothing to prevent Rondelmar from invading all of Antiopia, and this time staying permanently – in fact, my Lord Emperor could send his armies all over the known world. The only limits would be our manpower.’
‘And after such destruction, and with the promise of untold plunder to come, I have no doubt our vassal states will be cowed into permanent submission,’ Lucia concluded, a quiet smile on her face. ‘At a stroke the Ordo Costruo will cease to matter, and the Merchants’ ability to leverage the Bridge to their own benefit would be gone. All tribute and plunder will go through our Imperial Governors and the heathen will be utterly subjugated and brought to their knees before the throne of Kore. Rondelmar will rule all of Urte in a new and never-ending Golden Age.’
We don’t make small plans, Gurvon reflected. We’re here to change the world.
1
The Messiah’s Murderess
The Murder of Corineus
Alas! One thousand times, Alas! How did we not see the snake which had nested amongst us, the evil viper in female form who had slithered into our midst and awaited the perfect moment to commit her crime. Imagine the Paradise on Urte that would have been, had Corineus but lived!
THE BOOK OF KORE
After five hundred years, we’re no closer to understanding why, in the midst of the Ascendancy of the Blessed Three Hundred, Lillea Selene Sorades, known to the world as Corinea, murdered Johan Corin. She vanished before most were even aware of the crime, and she was never seen again. What happened that chaotic night to prompt her attack? We may never know.
ANTONIN MEIROS, ORDO COSTRUO, 880 (500TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE ASCENDANCY)
Teshwallabad, Northern Lakh, on the continent of Antiopia
Rami (Septinon) 929
15th month of the Moontide
Alaron Mercer sat on a muddy temple step, contemplating the waters of the Imuna River lapping his feet. A few feet away, the Zain monk Yash was playing with seven-month-old Dasra Meiros. Both little boy and young man were soaked, and gleefully happy.
‘I’ll look after him if you need a break?’ he called to Yash. The young monk had spoken for them when he, Ramita and Dasra had arrived at the monastery seeking shelter.
Yash looked vaguely offended. ‘Al’Rhon, this is the best time I’ve had since I got here.’
He’d never been the most spiritual of monks.
Alaron was glad to have someone else to keep an eye on the child. He couldn’t look at Dasra without seeing his twin brother, Nasatya, stolen away by Huriya Makani and Malevorn Andevarion two days ago. Scrying had given no clues as to where they had gone, and his thoughts were full of self-recriminations.
I had Nasatya in my hands and I lost him.
I held the Scytale of Corineus in my hands, and I lost it.
I faced Malevorn, and I lost. Again.
He lowered his face into his hands, borne down by the weight of his failings.
After fleeing the mughal’s palace in the wake of the carnage wrought by Ramita’s former blood-sister and her Souldrinker followers, they had taken refuge in this Zain monastery, where his friend Yash dwelt. Outside in the city, Mughal Tariq hunted them. It felt as if they were outstaying their welcome.
Why Malevorn was helping Huriya was unfathomable: he was an Imperial Inquisitor and sworn to the destruction of all Souldrinkers. It made no sense. Despite that, they’d trapped Alaron and Ramita and with the babies held hostage, forced an exchange: one of Ramita’s twins for the Scytale.
I let Ramita down . . . she must despise me!
What made his failure worse was how hopelessly in love with her he was. The realisation had struck at the worst possible time – in the midst of their battle with the Dokken – but it was now fact, as key to his being as water and air. It had been growing inside him during the months they’d spent together, training in the arts of the gnosis and sharing dangers and discoveries alike, and had crystallised as they faced death together. She was the drumming of his heartbeat. But he was pretty sure she didn’t feel the same way; after all, she’d made him her adopted brother in a Lakh ceremony called rakhi, probably to ensure he didn’t get any silly ideas. After all, she might have been born a lowly Aruna Nagar market-girl – but she was the widow of Antonin Meiros, one of the Blessed Three Hundred and greatest magician of the Age.
Who am I to dream so high?
Yash, his friend since they’d met at Mandira Khojana monastery and travelled together to Teshwallabad, had persuaded the Masters to take them in, but to stay much longer was to endanger th
eir hosts. Having brought so much death and destruction, they owed it to the monks to leave soon.
He’d barely seen Ramita since they’d arrived; she had spent most of the last two days praying to her Omali gods in the temple. The Zains held all gods to be equal, but they had Lakh roots, so Omali shrines were maintained within their walls. So when her voice floated out of the temple door, quavering and uncertain, he was on his feet in an instant.
‘Al’Rhon?’ she called. ‘Have you a minute?’
Something in her voice shouted danger. He swept up his kon-staff and kindled gnostic shields. ‘Keep Das with you,’ he told Yash. ‘It may be nothing, but . . .’
But it might be Huriya and Malevorn, come back to finish the job.
*
‘Vishnarayan-ji, Protector of Man, hear me! Aid me! Darikha-ji, hear me! Help me, Queen of Heaven! Hear me, Kaleesa-ji, Demon-Slayer! Come to my aid! Makheera-ji, Goddess of Destiny, alter your weaving to save my son!’
For the best part of two days, ever since the awful battle in the Mughal Dome, Ramita had been on her knees, beseeching the gods to undo the wrongs that had been done, begging for justice and mercy with her mind, calling with the gnosis, because surely the gods could hear a mage? Surely they would hear her. Surely they would lead her to her lost son!
But for two days the gods had remained silent.
They only help those who help themselves, her father had always said. Humbled, she gave up. Her knees unlocked painfully as she rose and turned towards the doors. Then she halted, petrified.
The statue of Makheera-ji, Queen of Fate, was stepping down from her pedestal, and Ramita’s heart almost stopped. The life-sized icon was blue-skinned, with thick coils of hair like a nest of snakes. She held symbols of power and knowledge in her six arms, and her golden eyes transfixed Ramita where she stood.
‘Makheera-ji?’ Ramita gasped.
The goddess laughed, and changed form again . . .
*
Alaron paused at the small door and peered in. The temple was full of shadows and soft orange light flickering from the oil lamps and dancing over the faces of the Omali gods, some fierce, some wise, with their multiple arms and blue-painted stone skin. For a nightmare moment it was as if they were all alive, surrounding Ramita, who stood in widow’s white in the middle.
‘What is it?’ he asked softly, his eyes piercing the gloomy interior.
‘We have a visitor,’ Ramita said in an odd voice. She usually sounded so certain about the world; what she didn’t understand she placed in the hands of her gods. But right now her dark, serious face looked entirely mystified.
Alaron looked beyond her at a dark-robed figure standing at the edge of the light. She was slender and a little stooped, a Rondian woman with silvery hair, her skin fair, though darkened by the sun, her face a network of fine creases and faint wrinkles.
He raised his staff into a defensive position; though there was nothing in the least threatening about her posture or demeanour. But white-skinned women didn’t come here, and she had a gnostic aura: she was a mage.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
‘She is one of your Rondian gods,’ Ramita said in a voice pitched between awe and disbelief. ‘First she was a statue of Makheera-ji, then she changed.’
Alaron blinked. ‘Rondians have only one god: Kore. He’s a man.’
Disdain flickered across the woman’s face. ‘I didn’t claim to be a god.’
‘She wants to talk to us,’ Ramita told him. ‘She says her name is Corinea.’
Corinea! Dear Kore! Alaron’s heart thudded painfully and he took an involuntary step backwards. ‘Get behind me,’ he told Ramita, his voice coming out thin and shaky. ‘Ramita, she’s—’
She’s what – Hel’s Whore? The Murderess of our Saviour?
He had been raised as a sceptic and didn’t believe in any gods. His father maintained that Corineus had been just a man, and so too his sister Corinea . . .
How can this be her?
But Ascendant Magi can live a very long time, he reminded himself. If it’s really her, she’s not a goddess, she’s a mage: an old, very powerful mage. He put himself between the woman and Ramita, trembling like a newborn colt and almost blinded by cold sweat. ‘What do you want?’
‘To talk. I don’t mean you any harm.’
‘Why would you want to talk with us?’
‘Because I heard this young woman speaking of things that concern me. She prayed for you too, Alaron Mercer, and I have never before heard a Rondian name in the prayers of a Lakh woman.’
His eyes flickered to Ramita, who nodded, her face flushing a little, and for a moment his thoughts detoured as he wondered what she’d been praying about. Concentrate, idiot!
‘Can you prove that you are who you say?’
Corineus’ murderer. His lover and his sister.
‘I don’t suppose I can, very easily. Unless you’d like to link minds with me?’
He shivered at the casual offer. Unshielded mental links were dangerous, and the more powerful of the two magi involved controlled them.
‘I will do it,’ Ramita said firmly.
Alaron swallowed. ‘No!’
‘My husband told me I would be stronger than your Ascendant-magi,’ the little Lakh girl reminded him.
‘No one is stronger than an Ascendant,’ Corinea said loftily.
‘If she really is Corinea, then she’s had almost six hundred years of using the gnosis!’ Alaron protested. ‘I’ll do it. I’m expendable.’
‘You aren’t expendable!’ Ramita said, suddenly alarmed. ‘You are my brother. I refuse to let you.’
She really does have this whole brother–sister thing around the wrong way, Alaron thought. Even so, something inside him glowed.
‘You are the widow of Antonin Meiros,’ Corinea mused. ‘He was the best of them; time has certainly proved that. But even he wouldn’t see me.’ She looked at Alaron. ‘Even the Ordo Costruo, sworn to peace, tried to hunt me down.’
I’m sure they had good reason. Alaron glanced sideways at Ramita, then lowered his staff slowly; he was a quarter-blood, and it would do him no good against an Ascendant if Corinea chose to attack.
But we need to know . . . He made up his mind and stepped forward. ‘Do it.’
Before Ramita could protest again, the Rondian woman had grasped his hand and images started crashing over him like a tidal wave: young people singing, holding torches aloft at twilight. A golden-haired man with a merry smile. That same man, standing on a platform, addressing an enraptured crowd chanting, ‘Corin! Corin! Corin!’ while hands were reaching out to him, and other young people were also clamouring for his attention. Then he saw frightened soldiers being pushed aside, flower garlands tangling in hair, a blur of tumultuous visions of love and dreams and death . . . A bloodied knife . . .
And behind the rush of images was the strong thread of identity present in any deep gnostic contact, which revealed that she was indeed exactly who she claimed to be. The shock of discovering that he was holding the hand of the most reviled woman in all of history was too much. He released her fingers and staggered away.
Ramita grabbed him, her eyes blazing. ‘Bhaiya? Al’Rhon?’
‘It’s okay,’ he panted, ‘she didn’t hurt me.’ He marshalled his strength and straightened. ‘It’s her! Sweet Kore . . .’ She really is Corinea!
Part of him expected her to burst into flame, grow horns or rip his heart from his chest, but instead she spoke perfectly normally, looking composed and patient. ‘You asked your gods for guidance, Ramita Ankesharan. You asked aid in finding your son. You asked help in recovering the Scytale of Corineus. You begged for your remaining son to be kept safe, and this young man also. If you wish, think of me as the answer to your prayers.’
Ramita frowned disapprovingly at this blasphemy.
‘What do you want of us?’ Alaron asked fearfully.
‘I want the Scytale.’
Of course: she wants to found a new Asce
ndancy, to take her vengeance on the magi.
Corinea shook her head as if in reply to his thoughts. He’d never been great at keeping his mind cloaked. ‘No, Alaron Mercer, I don’t wish to create a new Ascendancy. The first has caused quite enough misery; two factions of magi ripping at each other would destroy the world. No, I would use it to bargain for the opportunity to give my side of the story.’
‘Your side?’
Bitterness filled her voice. ‘Yes, my side of the story. I do have one, boy – and I promise you, it is not the one told in the Book of Kore!’ She looked from him to Ramita and back. ‘Will you hear it?’
Alaron swallowed and looked at Ramita. They both nodded hesitantly.
*
An hour later, they sat eating daal at a small table in the suite where the monks had housed them, two adjoining rooms with wooden beads hanging across the door frames. The air hung with incense and the spices in the curried daal, which they ate with rice and flatbreads, washed down with well-water. Corinea ate the Lakh way, rolling the curry and rice into balls then popping them in her mouth between sentences. She clearly spoke Lakh fluently, but used Rondian for Alaron’s benefit – Ramita was more proficient in Alaron’s tongue than he was in hers. After examining Corinea doubtfully – he’d not seen a white woman before – Yash had taken Dasra to the refectory for dinner. Her name meant nothing to him, and he’d taken Alaron’s assurance that all was well at face-value.
‘Who is your ancestor among the Blessed?’ Corinea asked Alaron. All Rondian magi could trace their ancestry to someone in the Blessed Three Hundred.
‘Berial.’
‘I recall Berial: Brician woman, brown hair.’ She studied Alaron. ‘You have her nose.’
